Nostalgia in Bloom - The Nostalgia of Tomorrow

Book me in to the best hotel you can imagine,
a real dive, somewhere special, it’s unimportant
because I’m coming to get you –
listen out for the gravel under the tyre
of my old Karman Ghia,
revived, for the purpose of this trip -
post-box red, 1965.
I’ll have polished the curves,
packed a picnic under the hood,
and she’ll purr along the open road,
stop, in those traditional neighbourhoods
where I am yours - and you,
you are mine. So book me in my love,
and we’ll go slow enough to see the bees kiss
the pink almond scent of springtime
blossom, slow enough
to remember each time we have felt
anything quite like this.

*

The Nostalgia of Tomorrow


How she moves;
how she moves me,

my tongue dry as

a bowing dancer tipping on ice.

How I need a drink,
the rum and lime fill the glass
and I top it up, top it up, stir;

the bottle doesn't need me, or tomorrow,
like I need this full glass, emptying

like tomorrow, reflecting
on how she moves me,
by the warmth of a winter fire.





dec1/08
littleditty

On Dreaming

Tonight there are petals along the corridors
to your room, yellow candlelight leads
an aching body through a world of scent,
and you are enchanted by all that is vanishing:
the bags in your hands have disappeared,
a jacket has been unhooked and peeled away,
there are no walls which shudder when you walk through,
only door frames becoming metaphor and simile.
There are no moths caught translucent on a window pane,
there are no panes - bookshelves have melted,
catalogues recycled, and forms have become an idea.
The same thing has happened with every electrical appliance,
batteries do not exist, soft furnishings evaporate
until all that remains is wood, linen, and feathers -
the only objects on the way to an absent window,
where you take my hand from under the covers,
curl around my back like a cape - and I wake,
to walk through the snowflakes with you.

Surfer's Winter Tonic

Well after riding the surf, when I wash up
on the shoreline of evening, drunk
on the refreshing keynotes in music,
you are like ice,
checking your watch, eyes to the starry sky,
your breath fanning a camp-fire burning
for the warmest brew of full bodied heat,
where you are all night my dream,
the esprit d’escalier of waves coming in.

We rise from the beach mat sheets,
your morning growl animating the verve
pulsing through the day
where you are all day my zing,
the esprit dancing in the waves coming in.

So élan vital you are – this freezing day
was an empty container, all for a full cup of you.
Your liquid thoughts spilt over last night’s blanket,
kick-starting my heart racing home
to warm my hands again around the hot pepper vigour
of your simmering medicinal wine.

She tracks an Orbit

Light years from you and me, her eye to a telescope,

she tracks an orbit and discovers a spiral galaxy.

We are going round in circles, so she begins

to determine the mass of objects, their weight

in relation to one another, while I see Mount

Clara, clear water and rocks full of gems.

Adaptive optics, and see her waterfall

a white arrow laser shower, chased by

jumping lunchtime boys arching their toes

over slated ledges. Her eye to a telescope,

she may imagine quiet on a lagoon's rocky bank,

a stormy energetic stem of a cliff

and warmer waters in shallow gentle edges.

She may see the shade, swim through the blind,

dip under thunder to cave, rest on the wet

shelf of sofa rock and watch the light come in.

06
edit

Covalent

Voice broken morning
takes the night home
to silk; where,
from the dew,
beaded dreams
mine diamond words, each one
to inlay a white gold necklace;
a smooth ancient turquoise stone
a dirty centrepiece; it might take
ethanol grain, or white spirit
to liven it up, leave it soundless,
clean, an empty surface touch;
though this would not
please her: she,
already flammable, C2H5 -
OH - intoxicating exhilarant,
fuckable, and...solvent;
for an evanescent woman, this gift
must sparkle
in the daylight of a million stars;
the steam, spit, and the polish
of a soft chamois, loosens the tourniquet
of grime on the stone's dusted veins,
and there, I am, to reveal strong charcoal river lines
bedding lush emerald meadows; slivery pathways
marshalling petal specks of coral,
spittle rimming the edges
to a delicate filigree clasp;
steam, grit, the power of breath,
and golden flecks abound;
I wake, the diamonds already inlayed
to catch the dark olive of her eye,
take volatile oil, essential,
to make the glitter for her thighs.
I am a jeweller of her arms, gold dust on my lips,
lucid, transient; and heralding C2H2 -
Oh...acetylene; intoxicated, explosive,
fuckable...and solvent;
vanishing......where I was,
covalent, a voice
broken, morning
taking the night home
to silk; where,
from the dew,
beaded dreams
mine diamonds from her hips,
each one to inlay
a white gold necklace.





28mar07

soft charcoal lines

Do you see my soft charcoal lines?
I was a stamp of ink, a fencepost letterbox,
I was territory - a blot on the landscape -
a shield mirror, a moat digger,
a straight line standing in a circle of steel.

I was iron, nickel, a face on a coin.

Do you see my soft charcoal lines?
I was mercury;
fluid, slippery

and untouchable;
I was encased;

measured and measuring.

Do you see my warm charcoal lines?
I was soft as silver in the moonlight
with the one I love,
I was her malleable gold.

Do you see me?
I am light, shade, a smudge...

I want your finger to trace
the vanishing outline you have made.

Do you see?
For I am soft -

flesh me out
and I am yours...

07
Voices from the Web 2008

Another Chardonnay

And you – my passion – breeze through
These orange curtains like you own the place,
Pad along the cool ceramic floor with fiery strides
To the bar, heating the marble, raiding cupboards,
Growling; and I’m here watching you pace;
Find the bottle, put it to your lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night,
Wipe your mouth, sigh through your teeth,
While here I am, smiling – fisherman’s trousers tied
Around my hips, sun blazing down on the sarong,
Skin listening to those warm sea breezes,
Listening - to a lusty blond called Chardonnay
Tell me my troubles over the rim of her glass eye.
You take another swig; slam the bottle on the bar,
Yawn, stretch like a bear, step onto the porch,
I hear you say - What a perfect name…
Strike a match on the doorframe,
Light a cigar; pick Tequila from the larder…
Chardonnay wants another spiked Pina Colada –
What a perfect name…“And you?”
I reach for the bottle, put it to my lips, and drink
Like it’s a long cold winter’s night, “Whatever
You’re having, Babe - I’ll have the same..

Loving the Potter

Loving she who takes the clay
deep from the mine and looms
great clods into fine porcelain cloth
for lace petal cups; her own delight,
and mine to see her bloom.

This weave of sheer reflective glaze
is tapestry; if fired too long
or cooled to quickly,
the loved up clay is doomed.

The shine is brightest
when simplicity,
endeavour and careful eyes
spark away the gloom.

Twice fired, twice cooled; timing,
and sharing precious sips.

Mistiming
and I arrange flowers in a cracked vase,
sweep broken tears and china chips
into the basket of my arms